Of Mercy and Meals
by fiologica
Summary: "Even the act of making lunch for Crowley is a symbol of love. It's tenderness and care for Crowley's well-being. It's precision and details and everything just-so. Even in his anger, in his sorrow, in his righteousness, Aziraphale doesn't skimp on the little things." In the aftermath of an argument, Aziraphale still makes lunch for Crowley anyway, and realizations are had.


Inspired by a tumblr post about Aziraphale making a 'loveless lunch' for Crowley, and feeling like even if they were angry at each other, Aziraphale wouldn't really skimp on the love he puts into his cooking, even _if_ it's just sandwiches.

~ o ~

Even the act of making lunch for Crowley is a symbol of love. It's tenderness and care for Crowley's well-being. It's precision and details and everything just-so. Even in his anger, in his sorrow, in his righteousness, Aziraphale doesn't skimp on the little things. He'll deny, of course, that it is anything more than food, but – even so, Crowley knows, can taste the very tangible warmth and affection that Aziraphale's hands have infused the meal with. It melts something in the depths of his soul, softens the hard stone he wants to imagine his heart is made of.

Crowley doesn't dare to refuse the homemade lunch. It is one thing to be angry, after all, but quite another to actually actively hurt his angel. So, even in all his anger, his frustration, his sorrow, his guilt, he takes what he is given and eats in silence. He'll deny, of course, that it is anything more than food, but – even so, Aziraphale knows, can see and sense the appreciation that Crowley exudes, the warmth and affection that runs deep down. It tempers the flames of anger that want to consume the angel, warms the core of ice that had overtaken his expression.

They sit in silence, sharing in the meal together, walls that were built up being slowly taken down, brick by brick, to be made into something new. It takes time, of course it does, it is patient, endless, back-breaking work. But it is worth it when Crowley at last lifts his head, a gentle endearment on his lips.

"Angel," he starts softly, and Aziraphale looks over his cup of tea, questions in his eyes. _Yes? What is it, my dear? Are you all right? Please tell me you're all right._

"I'm sorry, Aziraphale – what I said–"

If he wanted to, Aziraphale could see straight through Crowley, down to his very soul, could measure those words for their truth, and yet – he doesn't need to, because it is a contrite heart that speaks those words. He knows that Crowley will carry their argument as a burden, a yoke around his neck, another thorn in his side to wound and worry at. Aziraphale is fundamentally a creature of love, of mercy, of compassion and healing. How could he even begin to allow that?

So, he speaks up, answering in gentle tones. "I know, my dear," Aziraphale admits. He fumbles for the right words, but knows the most simple are the best. "I know, and I'm sorry too, Crowley. I shouldn't have gotten so cross with you."

Because Crowley can sense strong emotion, he doesn't need to see into the depths of Aziraphale's shining soul, doesn't need to weigh the angel's words for their truth. It is a loving heart that makes itself heard. Crowley knows only too well that, if allowed, Aziraphale will hold this over his own head, a Damocles Sword, proof of his own failings as an angel, as a representative of God's love and mercy, compassion and healing. Crowley will relieve that burden every time, because he knows exactly how that feels.

He puts his plate aside and crosses the room. Aziraphale is just-ready for him, quickly putting down his cup, and draws Crowley into his arms as the demon drops to his knees. They stay like that for a while, Crowley's face buried in Aziraphale's chest, surrounded by his scent, by his warmth, by his love.

Aziraphale pulls Crowley closer, feels the demon's grip on his jacket, hair soft against his face, his embrace strong yet gentle, a reminder that Aziraphale does not have to carry the world like Atlas.

Enfolded together in blessed peace and silence, the only sound is that of their breathing, of two hearts beating.

At last, they'll pull away, straighten themselves out, a fragile peace restored between them. Crowley takes Aziraphale's empty plate, tidies up, and then they'll go for a walk, get some fresh air, feed the ducks. In an hour or two, it will be as if nothing happened. Life will go on.


End file.
